I have just finished Hans Askenasy's book Cannibalism: from sacrifice to survival and found it fascinating. Some forms of cannibalism -- especially those wherein a relative is eaten -- would seem to be simply a mark of familial respect, whereas those in which an honored companion is consumed as a mark of respect seem downright eat-a-pal.

Having a natural predisposition to brilliance, I have had a keen interest in this thread since the day of its creation. MOAB has at various times displayed such brilliance that one could hardly look upon it lest one be permanently blinded. Even its darkest moments have outshown the brightest moments of every other thread.

To the future, I look with great anticipation. I perceive a MOAB that has evolved beyond the cyber world of its present confines unto a living organism. Even further, I see a MOAB that evolves beyond the physical into the eternal. . . what? . . . Did I hear MOAB whisper "let there be light"?. . .

(From Joe Odin: This, like the rest of this Guest's postings, was originally posted in Old Norse and has been translated into English by the Mudcat Translator, which also makes good mead and terrific coffee. Problems with meter, scansion, and poetic technique are the faults of the Translator, whch still had old coffee grounds in it, not the poet.)

Hrald am I, bravest berserker, My shirt-name given me ages ago When as a young man slew I a serpent, Slew I a fjord-troll, took many men's heads. I, son of Eyvind, thrice son of the One-Eyed, Was given my Longtooth in fiery Muspell, Handed my Longtooth by Tyr himself, Pledged to him my bloodtroth, my life to his service, E'en though he told me a boy would end mine. Then served I jarls, kings and great chieftains, A-viking I went, gaining much gold Killing brave warriors, the battle-lust on me, Longtooth gore dripping, bearded with blood. At last I came, a battle-wise berserk, Pledged to the King, Frodhi of Halfdan, Son of the son of Frodhi the Peace God, Hand-trothed to Frodhi, who his own brother killed. One Yule we kept not at Leidhra, this Yule to Haven And northward we went. Frodhi the Good, Frodhi the Peace-God, Father of Halfdan he had raised this small hall And there Frodhi of Halfdan went to celebrate Yule. Came there close jarls, warriors and chieftains, Hand-pledged, but Frodhi, at ease but untrusting, All weapons he garnered, filling the forehall, And his death and mine thereby assuring. After the feasting came Heidh the witch-wife Frodhi had brought her, wise-woman she was. Saw she the doom that was e'en then approaching, Helgi and Hroar, true sons of Halfdan. Hroar and Helgi, called Hrani and Ham, Feeders of swine, yet sons of the king, Sons of Frodhi's brother, who was by Frodhi slain. With help from their kinsmen, Saevil and Regin, They fired the hall and there many did burn. I, Harald, handpledged to Frodhi of Leidhra, Was therein unarmed, my Longtooth in Fore-hall and stolen away. Yellow-red flames ate at the timbers, Armed men blocked the low doors, many they speared. 'Til I with a bench and a post from the highseat The battle-lust on me, broke through the wall! Many I beat down, the post brain-bespattered, And then a young man before me appeared. Wearing a helm that nearly fit him, a shield in his left And Tyr-Gift firmly held in his right! I howled, my blood boiling, my hair all up-standing, For the blood of this stripling my own blood was lusting, And I swung the throne-post to break in his skull. Had the blow landed he would have been splattered But he caught it on shield-edge and it shattered the shield. Leaping he thrust over the bench that I carried, And Longtooth bit deep into my neck. I fell then. My blood, hot and a-boiling, spilt by Helgi, I his first man. Darker my vision, thought the fire leapt higher, Knew I that Frodhi was lost in the flames. They called out the women, children and servants, All these came out, but never the queen. Sigridh the mother of Hroar and Helgi, Forced into marriage with Frodhi Hafdan, Sigridh appeared to her sons in the doorway Then true to her marriage, returned to the flames.

I am The Omnipotent Krill! You have no power that can stand against me. I command the legions of Arcturus and the planetary hordes of Thoth. I hereby announce the imminent takeover of the Internet, which includes this pathetic forum. Since this thread is clearly the lynchpin of Mudcat Cafe, we are now commandeering it for the purpose of terrorizing you all into cringing obedience. Prepare to be dominated utterly and used for our inscrutable purposes.

We shall allow you a little time to assimilate this information, panic, and discuss it among yourselves hysterically, before submitting to our absolute rule.

I read your message to the Idaho Legion, those who were sober enough to understand it anyway. They had a coupla questions, though.

First off, Troutsucker said that he thought that krill were li'l ole microscopic shrimp that baleen whales and such fed on. Leastways, he'd been brought up that way, so he wants ta know what the heck you loock like and if yer bigger than a li'l ole microscopic shrimp. So please be good enough to make this here statement into a question and answer it, thanks.

Next off, Pinkytoes ask if you had a, a, well, a rectum. 'Cause she suggested that you stick a finger or tenykel or whatever it is you use for digitizin up there and keep stickin' it up there 'til you hear a great big sucking sound and you disappear up your own arsehole.

This last one was greeted with great applause and catcalls and whoops. One of the older fellers, who was at Bastogne with McAuliffe, said that we should give you the same answer McAuliffe REALLY gave to the Germans. So, here's an answer from the Idaho Legion. I cleaned it up some.

Hard Old Bearshit waits on you, Krill! Longtooth is hungry, and will feast on your guts. Cowardly spawn of Nidhog, I myself, alone, will wait upon you and feed yourself to you as you lay dying. I will shit in your wounds and piss on your head, and send you armless, legless, and peckerless to Hel!

I faced the impotent Krill centuries ago. They are the shit of starving dogs. Their threats are as empty as a used can of vaginal deodorant. Ignore them as you would ignore my previous post which should have read in the last sentence "Let there be bullshit".

I weep. I thrash. My teeth I gnash. My clothes I render into trash. My soul I damn, my self I fasch, My hide breaks out in angry rash! My Macintosh I nearly Crash! And to new heights my wrath I lash, And mutter "Sufferin' SUCcotash!" And "So's your father's old moustache" And floors and doors and tables bash ANd walnuts crush and taters mash And beef cows render into hash And precious poems reduce to ash While wasting precious piles of cash And flailing absent style or dash, While all around me Titans clash And bleeding hearts I cruelly gash Praying the MOAB gain panache Recover now her long-lost flash!

Back then, wit arced across the insipid skies like the electric sparks from the equipment that brought the monster to life in "Frankenstein." Back then, all women were languidly sensual, albeit with rapier-like intelligence that pierced directly to the heart of any matter while the men were all ruggedly handsome studs of superb intellect and unrivaled perspecasity. Freshly scrubbed children, cute, but not to the point of nausea; smart, but not mouthy; polite, but not fawning, ran and played on the dewy lawns. Back then, everyone had a great, but not boring, job that took no more than three hours each day. Back then, when the day's work was finished and dinner had been eaten, everyone gathered in the backyard while Mom or Dad -- and sometime the neighbors as well -- played a Martin Dreadnought and sang the wonderful old folksongs that their foreparents had brought with them from the East and/or from the Olde Countrie.

Well-paid, competent, motivated teachers taught and eager students learned. Cars got at least sixty miles to every gallon of inexpensive gasoline, and a device was being developed which would allow the car to run on water. Every stream and river was sparkling pure and ran joyfully over gravelly beds. Disease was non-existent, and old people were treated with the respect due to their age and wisdom. Back then, Moab was a city in Utah.

And then,

Clinton/Reagan/Truman/Ford/Carter/Bush/Bush/Eisenhower/Roosevelt or Thatcher/McKenzie/Gladstone/Disraeli/De Valera/Mendez France/De Gaulle/Blair/Stalin/the UN/Owen Ruadh O'Neill came into power and everything went to hell.

Huzzah! How like a lark hath sprung Bright BS newly from his favored tongue That lightens hearts and scents the air With pheremones from Bold Rapaire! To whom all Mobites give paean For bringing BS up again!

Back from the wasted, lowly pit Not pure BS, just lowly s**t Back from the hole, the dank retreat Smelling of mouldy, tired feet Out from the depths!! Anew, and young! Praise be to Rapaire's sparkling tongue!!

42, with all due respect it is exactly this sort of post which raises my ire and sets me to bemoaning the decline of BS in our time. You are capable of soaring to heights of BS, curlicues of excess and baroque extravagance, of inciting towering vibrations and flowering perfumes of BS. And yet you limit yourself to a tired play on an old quote.

Come, madam!! You can do better by far!! Why should you not give the Mother your best BS?

Courteous Reader, I have heard that nothing gives an Author so great Pleasure, as to find his Works respectfully quoted by other learned Authors. This Pleasure I have seldom enjoyed; for tho' I have been, if I may say it without Vanity, an eminent Author of Almanacks annually now a full Quarter of a Century, my Brother Authors in the same Way, for what Reason I know not, have ever been very sparing in their Applauses; and no other Author has taken the least Notice of me, so that did not my Writings produce me some solid Pudding, the great Deficiency of Praise would have quite discouraged me.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Preface, Poor Richard Improved: Being an Almanack and Ephemeris … for the Year of Our Lord, 1758.

Which reminds me that a historical examination of BS would be useful and, possibly, even profitable. And where better to conduct such than MOAB, or who better to undertake such an endeavor than the MOABites?

And so I offer this, extracted from a letter from the Earl of Oxford to his brother, Robert Cecil:

"My very good Broother, I have receyved by Henry Loke yowre moste kynde message, whiche I so effectuallye imbrace, that whatt for the owlde loue I have borne yow, whiche I assure yow was very greate, what for the alliance which ys betwene vs, whiche ys tyed so fast by my chyldren of yowre owne syster, what for myne owne dispositione to yowre selfe, whiche hathe bene rootede by longe and many familiarites of a moore yowthefull tyme there cowld have beene nothinge soo deerly welcome vnto me. wherfore not as a stranger but in the owld style, I doo assure yow that yow shall have no faster freende & wellwisher vnto yow then my self eyther in kyndnes, which I finde beyond myne expectatione in yow; or in kyndred, wherby none ys nerer allyed then my selfe, sythe of yowre systers, of my wyfe only yow have receyved Nieces. A syster I say not by any venter, but borne of the same father, and the same moother of yowre selfe. I will say no moore, for woordes in faythefull myndes are tedious."

And this:

"Shake-speare, at length thy pious fellowes give The world thy Workes : thy Workes, by which, out-live Thy Tombe, thy name must when that stone is rent, And Time dissolves thy Stratford Moniment, Here we alive shall view thee still. This Booke, When Brasse and Marble fade, shall make thee looke Fresh to all Ages : when Posteritie Shall loath what's new, thinke all is prodegie That is not Shake-speares; ev'ry Line, each Verse Here shall revive, redeeme thee from thy Herse. Nor Fire, nor cankring Age, as Naso said, Of his, thy wit-fraught Booke shall once invade. Nor shall I e're beleeve, or thinke thee dead. (Though mist) untill our bankrout Stage be sped (Imposible) with some new straine t'out-do Passions of Juliet, and her Romeo ; Or till I heare a Scene more nobly take, Then when thy half-Sword parlying Romans spake. Till these, till any of thy Volumes rest Shall with more fire, more feeling be exprest, Be sure, our Shake-speare, thou canst never dye, But crown'd with Lawrell, live eternally."

Both of these are representative of a form of BS technically known as "laying it on thick".

All so true! Let us draw on the best that Franklyne and his contemporaries have to offer for inspiration, for models, for insight and beauty. But shall that be all? Never!!

We will take the ancient arts of BS and stretch them, extend them, we will boldly march beyond the furthest limits of history and into the scinitillating parameters of Future BS Unknown and Unimagined, finding the far horizons never before touched with BS!!

Into the future and Over the Top with MOAB!! Unleash the fire of your minds, and take BS to Unheard of Heights!! Onward!

Ye lovers of the picturesque, away and see Beautiful Balmoral, near by the River Dee; There ye will see the deer browsing on the heathery hills, While adown their sides run clear sparkling rills.

Which the traveller can drink of when he feels dry, And admire the dark River Dee near by, Rolling smoothly and silently on its way, Which is most lovely to see on a summer day.

There the trout do sport and play During the live-long summer day; Also plenty of salmon are there to be seen, Glittering like silver in the sun's sheen.

And the mountains are rugged and wild to be seen, But the woodlands are beautiful when Nature's face is green; There numerous rabbits do gambol all day Amongst the green scrubbery all lively and gay.

There's one charming spot most magnificent to be seen, 'Tis Balmoral Castle, the Highland Home of our Queen; The surrounding scenery is enchanting to see, While near by rolls past the lovely River Dee.

Therefore, ye lovers of the picturesque, away and see Beautiful Balmoral Castle and its grand scenery, And the sight will fill your hearts with glee, As ye walk along the bonnie banks o' the River Dee.

Little Hawk, you are an unrepentant worthless monger of decrepitude and saccharine incompetence, a dark black fly on the white thigh of history, a boil on the smooth brow of Intelligence, and a foul odor in the underwear of Art.

We are pleased to inform you of the announcement of winners of the UK LOTTO/INTERNATIONAL PROGRAMS held on 26th FEBUARY 2004 as part of our yearly bonanza. You or your company, attached to ticket number 1416-4612-750, with serial number 3187-17 drew the lucky numbers 31-17-8-28-55, and consequently won the lottery in the "A" category.

You have therefore been approved for a lump sum pay out of US$5,500,000.00 in cash credited to file REF NO. REF: NBM44125677. This is from total prize money of US$16,500,000.00 shared among the Three (3) international winners in this category. All participants were selected through a computer balloting system drawn form 25,000 names from Middle East, Asia, Africa,Canada,Europe and North America and Oceania as part our International Promotions Program, which is conducted annually.

CONGRATULATIONS!

Your fund is now deposited with CORPORATE SECURITIES CO, a security House. Due to the mix up of some numbers and names, we ask that you keep this award strictly from public notice until your claim has been processed and your money remitted to your account.This is part of our security protocol to avoid double claiming or unscrupulous acts by participants of this program.

We hope with a part of you prize, you will participate in our end of year high stakes US$1.1 billion International Lottery. To begin your claim, please contact your claim agent; MR. PETER SMITH, CLAIMS AGENT UK LOTTO .. 140 NORTHAMPTON ROAD, EC1R 0HB LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM. Email: peter_smith@mail2world.com

For due processing and remittance of your prize money to a designated account of your choice. Remember, you must contact your claim agent not later than 4th of August, 2004.After this date, all funds will be returned as unclaimed. All correspondences to MR.PETER SMITH, by mail,should have this EMAIL sent along with it and also, your FULL NAMES, ADDRESS, YOUR COUNTRY OF RESIDENCE and your EMAIL ADDRESS to which this email is sent,should be clearly and BOLDLY WRITTEN IN YOUR RESPONSE with your claims agent.

NOTE: In order to avoid unnecessary delays and complications, please remember to quote your reference and batch numbers in every one of your correspondences with your agent. Furthermore,should there be any change of your address, do inform your claims agent as soon as possible.

Congratulations again from all our staff and thank you for being part of our promotions program.

N.B. Any breach of confidentiality on the part of the winners will result to disqualification. Please do not reply to this mail. Contact your claim agent." -----------

I will, of course, share my good fortune with other MOABites.

This is sooooooooooo exciting I've wet my pants several times, and when I first read the email, in those immortal words from the play Oh Dad, poor dad, Momma's hung you in the closet and I'm feeling so sad", "I laughed and giggled and went sticky-wet." What's REALLY exciting about it is that I haven't been in the UK since 1997 and I don't buy lottery tickets! One of the UK 'Catters must have bought it for in my name as an anonymous gift.

Anyway, if the regular MOABites will let me know when they'll be in the area I'll be certain to have their can of beer ready for them.

Now being wealthy, I feel it incumbent to assist my Fellow Man and Fellow Woman. Knowing that there is no forum for BS (albeit of a substandard quality) than politics, at the risk of alienating some MOABites (and thereby saving myself the costs of their share in my loot) I feel that this must be posted for their own good. It is time to Take A Stand, a Time To Act! Please take this to heart and Do Whatever Needs To Be Done!

ITS TIME TO RE-EVALUATE OUR INVOLVEMENT!

Every day there are news reports about more deaths.

Every night on TV there are photos of death and destruction.

Why are we still there?

We occupied this land, which we had to take by force, but it causes us nothing but trouble.

Why are we still there?

Many of our children go there and never come back.

Why are we still there?

Their government is unstable, and they have sporadic leadership.

Why are we still there?

Many of their people are uncivilized.

Why are we still there?

The place is subject to natural disasters, from which we are supposed to bail them out.

Why are we still there?

There are more than 1,000 religious sects, which we do not nderstand.

Why are we still there?

Their folkways, foods, and fads are unfathomable to ordinary Americans.

Why are we still there?

We can't even secure the borders.

Why are we still there?

They are billions of dollars in debt, and it will cost billions more to rebuild, which we can't afford.

Dere Raypierre, I wabaz so glade to har thet you will continue the close and afflable frendship wif my own self and the obthers of my ilk. I would like to hope thet you like me better then them others az I am perdy danged personable and need some ob the lotto moneys real quick-like. Whar kin I sign up fore a loan and kin you send me a big check today? Ef you do it wif Fed Ex, just mek it for the next bizness morning and I will cover the postage later on. I hope yore in good health and be careful about just who you send money to, az thar iz some perdy shady characters what frequents this mother here.

I shouldn't worry much about Khing Khnadu if he hits you up though az he iz beyond needing enny financial assistance and in hiz crazed state, would only light hiz off-brand cigarettes wif the twenties and hunnerts. CarolC the crapper queen will no doubt squander hers on accordians inlaid with mother ob toilet seat decorations and Amos would moren likely get hold of a Berlitz, "Speak and Write in All the Languages obv the World" course and then we would never get to enjoy hiz company no more az it would keep him perdy busy.

Ennyhow, send me about half or more if you kin spare it and I'll be reel grateful and happy for a long while.

The Royal Territory of Mississippi is in great need, dear fiends! I, as King, must now make hard decisions. I see the poor Royal Dancing Tarts in wardrobes that would embarrass Janet Jackson! The Royal Forkers are running dreadfully low of mortar! And, alas, the upcoming JOE OFFER BIRTHMONTH CELEBRATION is in danger of fizzling before the first firecracker is ignited! Perhaps most distressing, the Royal Headdress looks like it hias been plucked more often than the Dancing Tarts!

Therefore,I, King khnardazz , uh. . . khandu, must seek outside financial aid. I must turn to the inhabitants of this great land of MOAB for assistance. If each of you donate a mere $100.00 for each time you have posted on this glorious thread, I believe that would change the whole tomato!

Or perhaps if maybe one of you were lucky enough to say, maybe inherited a large sum or won a lottery, you could save the Kingdom single-handedly! Just multiply the number of posts by $100.00 & send it to me. (Cashiers Check would do nicely!)

Of course, you will receive great honor in the Kingdom for your love-offering! A seat at the right hand of the King will be reserved for you at all Royal Gatherings; you will be given the key to the Royal Dancing Tarts' private quarters, & You will receive the honored title of First Duck & Knight of the Realm of Tupelo!!!!!

Ahh, Khahndu! Ahs soon ahs the UK Lotto deposits the money into my bahnk ahccount, I shahll be more thahn hahppy to fund the Celebrahtion. Were to send ah check or a cheque now, both you ahnd I would be be embahrahssed. Not the petty ahmount you stipulahte, but ah generous memoriahl indeed.

Ahlso, pleahse feel free to spend ah little on yourself ahs well from the money I will send you ahfter the big bucks ahre deposited to my ahccount.

Tweed, you too ahre remembered, ahs ahre the rest of you. I hahve ahlreahdy purchahsed ah six-pahck of Keystone to shahre with you when you drop ahround, ahnd I will ahlso provide ah repahst beyond your wildest dreahms: ahs a hint, how mahny hot dogs cahn you eaht?